The Stranger in the Shadows

It was twilight, which sent the mist curling round the ancient oaks and veiled the forest in a weird shroud. Lyra tied her shawl tightly about her shoulders as she slipped into the cool darkness, carrying the scent of herbs about her skin.

Her days were usually so quiet merely gathering plants and concocting remedies for all manner of aches and complaints. But tonight, the stillness felt different; it was heavy, expectant, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

She stopped, clutching the basket in one hand, listening as a faint sound reached her ears a rustling in the underbrush that was too deliberate to be the wind.

Her heart quickened.

Living on the edge of the woods, she was not unfamiliar with wild animals, but this felt different.

This felt dangerous.

Before she could step back, a figure stumbled into view. Lyra froze.

The man was tall, his broad frame imposing even as he leaned heavily against a tree for support. His armor, dark as the shadows themselves, was battered and streaked with blood.

A hood partially covered his face, but she could make out the sharp line of his jaw, the grim set of his mouth.

"Help me," he rasped, his voice raw and strained.

Lyra hesitated. Every instinct told her to run, to lock her door, and pretend she hadn't seen him.

But something in his tone, a desperation that cut through her fear, rooted her in place.

"You're hurt," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Come inside. Quickly."

The man lurched forward, and she ran to his side, putting an arm around his waist to steady him. His body was tense, hot, and smelled of blood and metal.

Crossing the threshold of her cottage, Lyra felt the weight of his presence, as if he carried the shadows of the forest with him.

Kieran barely felt the warmth of the room or the soft glow of the fire as Lyra guided him to a chair. His vision swam, but he forced himself to stay conscious. He had no choice.

The Duskwraiths were close he could sense their malice pressing against the edges of his mind like glacial tendrils.

"Sit still," Lyra ordered, already working to unbuckle his armor.

Her touch was firm yet gentle, and he found himself complying despite the urge to push her away.

She didn't flinch at the sight of his wounds, though concern etched her brow.

"What happened to you?" she asked, voice soft but insistent.

Kieran's jaw tightened. "It's better if you don't know."

"You're bleeding all over my floor. I think I deserve an answer." Her green eyes flashed with determination, daring him to argue. He almost smiled at her defiance.

Almost. But the weight of his mission crushed any amusement.

"They're coming," he said instead, his voice low and grim.

"If you value your life, you'll leave this place. Now."

Lyra stilled her fingers for an instant before returning with brisk efficiency to his wound work. "I grew up here," she said. "I am not going to go anywhere because of some vagabond who rolls in with doom-laden prophecies.

"Kieran's gaze met hers, the air crackling with tension between them like a storm over dry leaves. "You wouldn't understand," he muttered. "Duskwraiths."

Lyra snorted. "What?"

"Creatures of shadow," he breathed. "They feed on fear and despair.

They've been stalking me. Now they'll be after you."

A flicker crossed her face as the fear showed before she locked it away.

"Then we'll face them when they come. But first, you have to live."

She stitched wounds, applied poultices, and went about her work without so much as a whisper of complaint, even when the sun began to set and night drew on. Kieran sat silently beside her, his mind racing. Brave, he supposed. Reckless, maybe, but she was certainly brave.

He hadn't expected to find someone like her here, someone who reminded him of a life he'd long since lost.

And finally, when she leaned back against the pillow, her body all slouch, all exhausted, she sighed tiredly. "There. You'll be okay."

"Thank you," he said, the words tasting strange on his lips.

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and he had the strange feeling that she could see past the armor, past the shadows, to the man beneath. It was unsettling.

"Who are you?" she asked. "And why are you really here?

Kieran hesitated. The truth was perilous, but lying felt… wrong. "My name is Kieran," he said at last. "I'm looking for the Keeper."

Lyra's expression darkened. "The Keeper? What does that mean?"

"A protector," he explained. "Someone with the ability to shield this realm from the darkness that is coming."

Lyra let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Then you've come to the wrong place. I'm just an herbalist."

Kieran's eyes locked on hers. "You are more than that. You have to be."

Before she could open her mouth to protest, a shiver slithered across the room, and the fire died. Lyra gasped as shadows began to ripple and twist, forming shapes that exuded pure malice.

"Behind me," Kieran ordered. He rose, momentarily forgetting his injuries, and drew a blade that shimmered with an unearthly light.

Lyra's pulse thudded in her chest as the creatures came closer, their eyes glowing like embers in the dark. She snatched a knife off the table, her hands shaking. "What are those?"

"Duskwraiths," Kieran said grimly. "And they won't stop until they've consumed everything."

With deadly precision, Kieran lunged, his blade slicing through one of the creatures.

It let out a haunting wail before dissolving into the darkness. But more surged forward, their numbers overwhelming.

Lyra's instincts took over. She grabbed a jar of powdered wolfsbane and threw it at the closest wraith. The creature recoiled, hissing as the powder seared its form.

"Wolfsbane," she breathed.

She grabbed more jars from her shelves, flinging their contents with frantic accuracy. The creatures shrieked, writhing in agony as the mixture of herbs repelled them.

Beside her, Kieran fought like a man possessed, his movements fluid and deadly. At last, the final wraith fell, and the room plunged into silence.

Lyra collapsed to the floor, her chest heaving. Kieran turned to her, his expression unreadable. "You're not just an herbalist," he murmured. "You're the Keeper."

Lyra met his gaze, her thoughts swirling. She wanted to deny it, to hold on to the life she knew. But deep down, she sensed the truth in his words.

And it filled her with dread.

Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the whispers of more shadows to come.